


She was a wolf

by emotionalsupporthufflepuff



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Death, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 12:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsupporthufflepuff/pseuds/emotionalsupporthufflepuff
Summary: Sansa was always a wolf even when she was caged.





	She was a wolf

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at this fandom and this style, feedback is appreciated.  
> Thank you to Waywarddreamer for the art for this.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/170159896@N06/33999463388/in/dateposted-public/)

He wasn't supposed to leave.

He was supposed to be brave and defend the King ( no matter how worthless a king) and defend the Realm ( no matter how worthless the realm...the people who had cheered and applauded when her own father’s blade removed his head from his shoulders and the blood stained the stairs of the sept…)

He, the Hound, the knight who wasn’t a knight, who shook away the title of “ Ser” like a dog ridding himself water. Who wore all the armor and cloaks they gave him and attended the king’s side and grunted and nodded in all the right places when he was supposed to be listening but He never really was.  
Never really was one of them.  
But when the sea turned to fire and the ships crackled like kindling and the night suddenly became day without the sun, he found who he was.  
He was Sandor and the king was Joffery and the Imp was Tyrion and the Kingslayer was Jamie but they were all men and they would all burn just the same. Just the same as he had.  
So they could all go fuck themselves.  
( Or each other, didn’t make a difference)  
He left her.  
Alone in her gilded her cage. With her silks and fine jewels and pretty highborn face, all the worthless currency she carried. She moved her graceful movements, said her pretty words and sang her pretty song.  
( Would they still think of her as pretty if she climbed to the top of the highest tower she could get to and leaped from it, gracefully, singing a hymn all the way down? Would she break into a million pretty pieces on to the ground and the people would croon about how the picked her brains from her pretty _pretty_ hair to do it up just for her funeral…)  
No.  
She wasn’t really a bird.  
She was a wolf.  
She was a wolf who paced the length of her cage, watching her captors, waiting for weakness.  
And at the first sign, she would take it. She would run, over the land, flawlessly navigating terrain.  
Sniffing the air for snow. For home.

 

She wasn’t supposed to look like that.  
She wasn’t supposed to stand there on the parapet with hair the color of autumn on fire that cascaded down.  
Not with eyes the color of cold steel whose youthful light had been replaced with a different shade of something dangerous.  
Now a full woman who breasts bloomed under hardened leather, who hips swished with movement even under heavy furs, who made him think all the thoughts he wouldn’t dare mutter out loud about a highborn lady.  
Sansa held herself like all the land was hers and he knew he’d kill the man who challenged her authority. ( He’d wanted to kill the man who defiled her but he’d heard the tales of how she fed him to his hounds and thought, maybe, that was a cruel jape of fate that she should).  
She was made of snow and steal and blood and …something cruel and feral, like a predator that could kill you if it felt so inclined.  
Not a little bird anymore.  
A Wolf.  
And when the snow had been turned to fire and the dead had become the living and the living turned to dead.  
And blood and bone and flesh and ash had replaced the stone and soil.  
He remembered they were both people and they would all burn just the same.

When the dawn came and they both took deep breaths of the same bitter winter air.  
When they mourned the dead and buried them in all the fine things they no longer needed and the women wept there tears and Sandor said nothing as they all went up in flame…  
When they broke bread, laugh and drank. They sang songs and breathed in the hot stuffy air of too many people crammed in a small space radiating heat from too much drink…  
She beckoned him to follow her, and for once he did as he was told, she showed him what it was like to still be human with her. In her bed and skin the color of snow and hair the color of autumn.

He wasn’t supposed to die.  
He was supposed to come back (begrudgingly of course because he would never admit he was capable of anything more than fighting ).  
He was going to come riding around the corner to her and settle himself comfortably in her life where she built stone and snow walls to keep the rest of those useless _useless_ people out.  
She wasn’t supposed to taste the salty bitter tears again, she had banished them years ago.  
He was the knight who wasn’t and the hero who wasn’t and the man who was really a shield and a thousand other impossible things.  
No. It wasn’t like that. Remember that now Sansa.  
She was a wolf.


End file.
